


happy birthday to the end

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, idek how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:24:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Winter’s split brows furrow, and he raises his metal fist to Sam’s wrist, pulling it slowly. “Why does a Tuesday make you sad?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 71





	happy birthday to the end

Sam thinks he knows how this scene would look if his life were a goddamned movie. He can see it, the overly bright, almost golden coloring. The fucking sunburst glare across the screen. Him, artfully dusty instead of haggard and caked in filth. Everyone in this damn shop smiling brightly when they should stare at him like, well, like they were. Frightened, wary, hands going to weapons they “didn't have.” In the movie, the camera would pan across stupid goods until it slowly zoomed in on the wooden cube. 

Viewers wouldn’t even know what it was until they’d panned back to Sam, falling to his knees as the sound cut out. The stupid fucking date would come into view and his scream would echo, his sob? Cinematic.

Sam doesn’t have time to cry.

He doesn’t even have time to stop really, to stare at the blasted bit of fir, burned with the letters he barely understands. But he knows that number, knows it’s goddamned important. 

“Fuck the Winter Soldier,” he growls. He leaves the soap and the water and the cake he bought in a pile on the floor. 

He’s going to  _ murder _ Steve Roger’s best friend. He’ll feel bad, later. Maybe at the funeral. Or maybe when Steve cuffs him. 

Can Steve arrest him for murdering a fugitive?

Doesn’t matter. Because, because,  _ Jesus _ . His chest hurts. It’s squeezing too tight, all the air rushing about trying to find and escape and mostly just making his heart beat too fast. 

He didn’t fall to his knees in the store, ruining that shot. But maybe the scene works better out here, his fist bleeding across the stony road. He’s not screaming, not crying, not yet. 

Movement catches the corner of his eye and Sam doesn’t make a conscious decision. 

His wings propel him forward and for the first time, the  _ first time _ in goddamned months he finally gets his hands on the Winter Soldier’s neck.

Funny, but he’s a lot blurrier up close than he was in surveillance photos. Sam punches, punches as hard as he can. 

His blood is pounding in his ears, slow and steady and almost soothing. It’s all Sam can hear, even as he breaks apart the fucking face in front of him. 

Winter isn’t even trying to fight back. He raises a hand, his human hand, slow and non threatening and he touches Sam’s cheek. It’s gentle and warm and the wrong kind of comforting, and his thumb strokes away tears Sam wasn’t aware of. 

“-ok?” Winter is asking him. 

Winter’s face is a wreck. He’s bleeding from his nose, his lips busted, he can’t even open his right eye and the left one’s just a swelling mess of purples and greens. But he’s stroking Sam’s cheek and he’s asking, “Are you okay?” 

Like he doesn’t fucking know why Sam’s been stalking him all across the goddamed Romanian country side. “Like you even care,” Sam chokes out. 

Winter frowns, as much as his battered face can manage. “You saw something. What did you see?” 

Sam says, “The date.” 

Winter’s split brows furrow, and he raises his metal fist to Sam’s wrist, pulling it slowly. “Why does a Tuesday make you sad?” 

“Man,” Sam laughs out. It’s an ugly, gurgling, wet thing, full of contempt and frustration and, “We shouldn’t even be  _ speaking _ .”

“You followed me all this way, and then you had me, and you started crying,” Winter assesses. “Why is Tuesday sad.”

“It isn’t about  _ Tuesday _ ,” Sam huffs out. “Jesus, did Hydra suck out your last brain cell in all their experiments.” 

Winter flinches, and Sam almost feels bad. 

“It’s her birthday, you know,” Sam says instead. Even though Winter doesn’t know, can’t know. “My mama’s birthday. Probably her last. I was supposed to be there. I  _ promised _ I’d be there.” He’s choking again, the air shifting all wrong in his chest and his vision dancing. “It’s gonna be her last goddamned birthday and instead of being there with her, by her side, I’m fucking chasing your ghost ass across your fucking homeland and I-” shit. Is Winter even Romanian?

“So go to her,” Winter tells him. 

Sam levels him a look that’d make his mama proud. 

Winter isn’t bothered. His hand still hasn’t left Sam’s cheek and he still has Sam’s wrist, but he sits up, knocking Sam on his ass. “Go home. Take me with you. Stick me in a cage until the party is over and then finish me.”

Sam thinks about this, about the sun dying behind them. “The party is probably already long over,” he says wetly. 

“Go  _ see  _ her,” Winter urges. “Before everything is gone. I promise to wait.”

Thing is, Sam might never catch Winter again. Hell, he’s real sure he only caught him this time because it was allowed. But his mama ain’t got long left in her, and he  _ misses her. _

“Okay,” he says. “Okay,” because what else can he say. 

He gets up, dusts himself off. He has no plane, no passport, no real way to get back. He doesn’t really want to ask S.H.I.E.L.D, “Hey foot me a flight home for Ma’s birthday?” But he doesn’t have a ton of options. 

“I got a plane,” Winter tells him. 

“Of fucking course,” Sam grouses. 

“You can clean up on it.” 

Sam follows him, because what else is there to do?

What else is there to _do?_

-

Winter didn’t exactly have a plane, but he did have a way to steal one. A nice one, with a fucking shower, and a suit that mostly fit Sam. 

They don’t speak the whole way there. 

Winter parks it in a field, steals a car, and lets Sam cuff him to the door even though they both know if he wanted to, he could easily break free. 

Sam stops caring when he walks through the door of his mama’s tiny home. She’s sitting in her rocker, the faded red one with it’s dark stripes and it’s dangerous lean, always just too far back. She looks so small, so frail and he tries not to cry. 

“Happy birthday, Mama,” he says softly. Winter had procured a beautiful shaw, handmade and died a soft grey and he gives it to her. Wraps it around her shoulders and tucks it against her legs. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

A leathery hand, all dry and cold, holds his cheek. Funny, but when she puts it over where Winter had held his face, it feels… poetic or some shit. “I’m just glad you made it, Sam,” his mama tells him. “I was afraid I’d,” Sam doesn’t let her finish. He kisses her cheek and then grips her as tight as he can around her waist. 

He does cry now, face buried in his mama’s stomach. Her hands stroking over his hair like he did when she was little. “Mama,” he cries. “Mama, please. One more birthday, I promise I’ll make it this time.” 

She shushes him. Shushes him like it’s all she can do and he does his best to fit himself into the chair with her. He’s not sure who is holding who but it doesn’t matter. 

“I love you, Mama,” he whispers. 

She doesn’t answer him, except to move her thumb. It’s such a slow motion, and then her hand falls in her lap. 

Sam doesn’t know how long they stay that way. Only that his thighs are cramping and his back twitching and when his mama says, “Sam, you made it. I’m so glad,” and then says nothing, he shakes so bad the whole chair rocks. 

-

By the time Sam finally makes it back outside with a several sandwiches in ziplock bags and some water bottles, the sun is well overhead. Sam gets into the car, only half surprised to see Winter still there. 

“Did you get to see her?” Winter asks gently. 

Sam nods. He chucks three bags and Winter’s face and turns the car back on. “Gotta get your ass outta here, ‘cause the paramedics and cops’ll arrive soon. I know a place we can get cleaned up. Won’t ask questions.”

Winter, kindly, is quiet the whole ride, and through the showers and a meal of shitty vending machine snacks and Sam crying into his pillow again. 

“You ain’t turning me over?” Winter finally asks. At some point he’d made his way into Sam’s bed, held him close and stroked his hair like Sam’s mama had. 

“You helped me see her before it was too late,” Sam says into his unfortunately nice chest. “I don’t know what the fuck I’ma do with you yet, but it ain’t gonna be turning your ass over to S.H.I.E.L.D so they can test you like a lab rat.”

He should call Steve, let Steve deal with it. But Winter’s face is still seven shades of verdant violet and he got all twitchy when Sam offered that earlier. 

“I know some places we can hide,” Winter offers. “Just until you figure it out.”

It’s a dumb as fuck plan, one Sam’s mama would scoff at. But she ain’t here anymore and he’s not sure what to do and his heart hurts so fucking much.

“Just until the grief passes,” Sam agrees. Like it’ll ever really go away.


End file.
